


One-Week Rule

by irisbleufic



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Correspondence, Drinking, Elevators, First Time, Jewish Character, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), M/M, Post-it Notes, Smoking, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Somebody's got a stick up his theoretical vortex.  Starting this off with a bang?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-Week Rule

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a fusion, not precisely, but it borrows a concept from a novel I loved growing up. In [**_The Westing Game_**](http://www.amazon.com/Westing-Game-Puffin-Modern-Classics/dp/014240120X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397533111&sr=8-1&keywords=the+westing+game), you have a situation in which the residents of a condominium tower start using the lift/elevator as a community bulletin board. Over time, genuine notices and invitations and lost-item flyers degenerate into people ragging on each other and having conversations. As you can imagine, it didn't take much for me to wonder what this happening with the Shatterdome lift/elevator might look like. This is intended as humor, but there's also some serious content (given that it's set in the weeks leading up to Raleigh's arrival, the battles, and immediate aftermath). You do not need to have read _The Westing Game_ to understand what's going on in this story. All my thanks to [**mystradedoodles**](http://mystradedoodles.tumblr.com/) and **[bowlingforgerbils](http://bowlingforgerbils.tumblr.com/)** for beta-reading; this was going to be my Mini-Bang entry, but I decided the AU story I'm working on will be much better suited to the purpose.

___________________________________________________________

 

_7 September 2025_

 

_TO THE ATTENTION OF ALL AND SUNDRY AUTHORISED LIFT USERS:_

 

_Inasmuch as I was foursquare against this asinine exercise in community message exchange, any Shatterdome staff may participate so long as they are willing to abide by the following guidelines:_

 

_1) All missives must be clearly marked with their date of posting. No exceptions._

 

_2) All missives must be removed by the posting party one week from date of issue._

 

_3) Infractions with regard to 1) and 2) shall result in HR being notified of such._

 

_Thank you, and see to it the privilege is not abused,_

_Dr. H. Gottlieb, K-Science Division_

___________________________________________________________

 

_September 7th_

_Somebody's got a stick up his theoretical vortex. Starting this off with a bang?_

___________________________________________________________

 

 _9/8/25 Is Dr. G actually serious right now? But OK, elevator bulletin board now in service. Thank you, Marshall. Who the hell pushed for this? We have phones and shit. Furthermore, who appointed Chief K-Science Curmudgeon the mod? Not-so-much thank you, Marshall. On that note, anybody up for darts on Saturday night? Come on. Gotta use this for something._ _—TC_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_September 10th_

_Please clean kwoon level kitchenette microwave you lazy commie bastards._

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9-11-25_

 

_But no, back right up, which lazy commie bastards? Inquiring minds, etc._

 

_(Also: that ceased to be an insult like a hundred years ago, get out of here. Mr. Choi, sir, I will agree to join you and your awesomely stupid hair for a round or two in the rec room. With pleasure. BYOB? BYOW? BYOHL? Like, what kind of darts are we talking? Are wagers and stripping involved? JA Tech Poker League '16. This honorary member will NEVER FORGET.)_

 

_All and sundry, Hermann. To which I reply: O RLY? Nobody says that._

 

_NG_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_September 11th_

_All five of them, mate. Where you been living, under half a kaiju's arse?_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_12/9/25 Oh, how nice, Chuck. Shame on you. Tendo, I like darts! - mm_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_September 12th_

_Swear I didn't write that one from the 10th, Ms. Mori, but who's gonna believe me? Agree about the microwaves, though, disgusting shite. Darts are a done deal. You're going down, Choi._

_____________________________________________________________

 

_12/9/25_

 

_Play nice, or nobody gets to walk Max._

 

_(Not even you, son. No buts about it.)_

 

_H.H._

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9/13/25 Yessir! 2100h. BYON-AB. Sorry, kids, them's the breaks. —TC_

_____________________________________________________________

 

 

The real reason that these insufferable errata exist is that Pentecost had got thoroughly tired of people badgering him for a staff bulletin board. Hermann tugs down the longest-lived missive in disgust _—_ his own, as it happens, a full day past expiry _—_ and crumples it in his pocket. Inasmuch as Newton's brazen piece of provocation needles him, he lets it pass. It's not yet out of date.  
  
Someone had been required to moderate the forum and enforce the one-week rule, so Hermann had thrown up his hands and decided that he might as well bloody volunteer. So far, so cringe-worthy. He hadn't exactly foreseen solicitations toward gaming and drink; furthermore, he hadn't foreseen the Marshall _permitting_ solicitations toward gaming and drink, not to mention asinine political slurs, because the lift does not as such strictly count as space _within the dome itself._

 Let it not be said that Pentecost is not an effective leader: he'll permit the ranks what shenanigans prove needful so long as said shenanigans result in the letting-off of steam. Reluctantly, Hermann finds he must concede that the ploy is working; just in from the chill and damp, he shivers, and before the lift door has the chance to close, another rain-beleaguered soul rushes in behind him.

 "Ah," says Hermann, awkwardly, glancing back and forth between Sasha and the variously taped-up or tacked-up notices. "That is to say, dear girl, I'll be sure to have a word _—_ "

 "No need," says Sasha, her grin fierce, and tugs down the offending article. "Aleksis can copy the handwriting of Hansen, Junior. Is very good, yes? Those brats cleaned the kitchen, no problem."

 Hermann frowns at her in consternation, sweeping back his hood, but as her grin widens, he can't help but stare. "Come now, surely you don't mean the _triplets_ —"

 "Big babies," Sasha sniffs, shoving the crinkled note in her coat. "We teach them manners."

 "Unbelievable," replies Hermann, faintly, and returns to staring at the wall. "But _clever_ ," he adds, sneaking her a sidelong glance and a smile; not since their Academy days has he felt so conspiratorial, perhaps even _gleeful_ that he has, in some measure, made this possible.

 "You did not come to darts last night," says Sasha, lightly elbowing him. "Why is this?"

 "Doubtless Doctor Geiszler made a fool of himself," Hermann retorts, leaning hard on his cane, but he shifts his weight and knocks companionably back into her. "I have no stomach for it."

 "Yes, and he has no stomach for Choi's many fake non-alcohol drinks," Sasha remarks dryly. "Why did you think he was not at breakfast, some kind of joke? He is becoming recluse?"

 "Oh, for the love of _God_ ," Hermann mutters, and tears out of the lift in the direction of Newton's quarters no sooner than the door slides open. He'll regret this bulletins lark yet, he's sure of it.

 

 

*

 

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9/15/25 Congrats to our formidable Vladivostok duo on a sound victory. Saturday night darts, crew, let's make this a thing. I'm not bringing supplemental imbibables next time, so somebody else had better take point. Winner brings munchies to next session, how about that? —TC_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9-15-25_

 

_Sure, smart-ass. Like anybody bought your false advertizing. After that, there's not gonna be anything "supplemental" left around here till the next load gets smuggled in, so you can suck it._

 

_In a shocking turn of events, I have a legit grievance to air: somebody swiped a pair of forceps from the lab and hasn't brought the damn things back. If found, please return to the Dungeon, stat._

 

_Seriously, leave it outside my door during the night or something and I won't prosecute._

 

_NG_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_September 16th_

_Oooo, wimpy rubber gauntlet = THROWN. Sure you didn't leave it in bed, Frankenstein?_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_16/9/25 Do I spy a correct literary reference? News flash, Chuck CAN read! Or at least watch Mel Brooks movies. Never mind, I got my hopes up. Newt, I hope you find them! - mm_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_17 September 2025_

 

_I should like to remind all participants in this utterly horrifying social experiment that the Marshall takes careful note of what is said here. Any information divulged can and will be used against you (not officially, but it may nonetheless be employed in the endeavour of making your life difficult)._

 

_Dr. Geiszler, they are on the FLOOR under that travesty you have the nerve to call a DESK._

 

_Thank you for your time,_

_Dr. H. Gottlieb, K-Science Division_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_September 18th_

_So the K in K-Science stands for 'kinky', huh? Late night lab action? Don't wanna know how those got THERE. P.S. Has anybody seen Max's leash? Since this has turned into the lost and found from hell, just thought I'd check. Dad's going spare looking for it. I smell a rat._

_____________________________________________________________

 

_18.9.25_

 

_So rats read and write? Maybe looks like that, but I think probably just watch movies._

 

_We will bring stuff to eat next time, no question. My advice is get stronger stomachs._

 

_SK_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_19th Sept._

 

_We propose taking turns on the microwave. Getting ugly in there again._

 

_(Want your leash, Hansen? Come and get it. Kwoon tomorrow, 0600h.)_

 

 _煒_ _虎_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9-19-25_

 

_THIS JUST IN: HU WEI IS MY MOTHERFUCKING HERO._

 

_NG_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_20/9/14_

 

_Hate to break it to you, but if there's any more language like that, we're shutting this down._

 

_(Congrats to the crew of Crimson Typhoon on a sound sparring victory this morning.)_

 

_H.H._

_____________________________________________________________

 

 

Hermann stares balefully at the exchange on display and doesn't even comment as Tendo slips into the lift beside him. He makes the surreptitious offer of an unlit cigarette as they begin to rise toward daylight; Tendo considers it for a moment before accepting and sticks it behind his ear.

 "Hand me that," he says, indicating his own missive dated the fifteenth. "Day seven, my man. Time to trash the sucker. It's hard times for sure, isn't it, having to sneak around for a smoke?"

 "I'm not frequent," says Hermann, pulling down the note and handing it to him, "but Newton— _Doctor Geiszler_ —isn't fond of the smell. I do my best to keep it on the sly."

 "Right, like he can smell _anything_ above that mess he's always in up to his elbows," chuckles Tendo, giving Hermann an appraising sidelong glance. "Hey, I'm sorry about his hangover. You had to put up with that shit for forty-eight hours. Not cool of me to say no booze and then renege."

 "On the contrary," says Hermann, "he was _blessedly_ quiet in comparison to what's normal."

 "That something you guys do down there, then?" Tendo asks, sticking the crumpled paper in his coat pocket and drawing out a lighter in its stead as the lift door creaks open. "Normal?"

 "Our own twisted version thereof, give or take a few idiosyncrasies," Hermann snaps, sticking a cigarette between his lips and striding out into the cold. He struggles against the wind with his own lighter until Tendo, already puffing away, leans in and lights it for him. " _Er_. Much obliged."

 "Chuck's gonna get his ass kicked one of these days," Tendo observes, blowing smoke at the sky.

 Hermann suppresses a smug grin. "Do you mean worse than he already _did_?" he asks dryly.

 "No, I mean _actually_ kicked," Tendo clarifies, flicking ash. "Not just a playful Wei smackdown."

 "I'd wager my swiftly decreasing salary that Miss Mori will be the one to do it," Hermann admits.

 "If mine weren't decreasing, too, I'd take you up on that," says Tendo, laughing. "All that shit he says about you and Newt, though. I thought you'd have filed like fifty complaints by now."

 "Given we have communists calling each other exactly what they are, and that without incident," Hermann sighs, taking another weary drag, "I think I can manage speculative slurs that are not, in fact, slurs—" _but facts_ , he thinks, abruptly looking away. _If we had the courage to let them be._

 "Assholes get their due eventually," Tendo reassures him. "If nothing else, I believe in that."

 "We're overdue an attack by twelve hours," says Hermann. "Everyone's understandably tense."

 Tendo nods, regarding his cigarette, which is almost down to the filter. "Is that why you pushed this goddamn silly business through the red tape? C'mon, brother, don't look so shocked. I know you've got _some_ sense of fun. Newt tells me you even laugh at his jokes sometimes. Makes his day."

 Hermann drops what's left of his cigarette and stamps it out furiously. "I wouldn't know," he replies, turning back for the lift. "What comes out of his mouth is rarely of any import."

 "That's not what you said in your last _re_ port," says Tendo, smiling. "Darts on Saturday? Oh, don't look so sour about it. Newt would've had a lot more fun if you'd been there, and he wouldn't have had as much to drink, either." Hermann stops in his tracks as Tendo catches up with him and lays a hand on his arm. "Listen, I'm nobody to speak out of turn, but he's got it _bad_ for you."

 Hermann says nothing, eyes fixed straight ahead, and hits the button to summon the lift.

 

 

*

 

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

_22/9/25 LET'S HEAR IT FOR TEAM MARK-3! RED DARTS = BEST DARTS! - mm_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_September 22nd_

_That was two freaking nights ago, why gloat now? Striker victory next time, dorks!_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9-23-25_

 

_Not to go all Moderator Gottlieb on your collective backside, but:_

 

_1) I thought that everyone agreed we we're called Team K-Science, and_

 

_2) even HERMANN agreed we're called Team K-Science. Nerds FTW._

 

_I understand that meatheads have feelings and all. It must have really sucked for you to lose to two totally dignified geniuses and one hell of a classy lady. Grow up, dude. Even Tendo can take it._

 

_NG_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9/23/25 Not my division. J-Tech's gonna wipe the floor with all of you, and that's a promise. Thanks go out to Team Cherno for those amazing baklava things. Please note that this means two totally dignified geniuses and one hell of a classy lady are responsible for the food next time. —TC_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_24 September 2025_

 

_As long as neither one of you forgets whose aim secured our victory, we shall all get along._

 

_(I shall personally see to it that there are no fatalities involving residual Kaiju Blue.)_

 

— _Dr. H. Gottlieb_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_25th Sept._

 

_False alarm, everybody. Kwoon level kitchenette tomorrow 2100h: We're Still Alive Party!_

 

 _煒_ _虎_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9-25-25_

 

_WTF, Choi? Is your radar so badly in need of an upgrade that it can't tell a mega-school of tuna from an extra-dimensional horror? Do I need to send Chief K-Science Curmudgeon up to fix it?_

 

_In the (presumable) absence of booze, I'd like to request more of those baklava things._

 

_NG_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_26/9/25_

 

_You presume correctly, Dr. Geiszler. Sorry, mate, Marshall's orders._

 

_Roll the party into darts tomorrow night or you won't have it at all._

 

_H.H._

_____________________________________________________________

 

_26.9.25_

 

_With due respect, sir, you are a massive buzz kill. I quote Aleksis here._

 

_SK_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_27 September 2025_

 

_Ms. Mori and I shan't get on with preparations for tonight until the kitchenette is clean, and I'm certain none of you will want to miss dessert in which Dr. Geiszler has had no hand whatsoever._

 

— _Dr. H. Gottlieb_

_____________________________________________________________

 

 

It's Sunday morning, and Hermann's headache stands as a fierce reminder of the previous evening. Not only had his team (and everyone else's, come to it) lost to the Wei triplets, but his and Mako's attempt at homemade mochi had gone over as little more than a gummy, disgusting mess. Newton had spent the night crowing every verbal equivalent of _Told you so!_ that he'd been able to muster.

 "Hold the lift, please!" Hermann calls, quickening his pace as he sees Mako vanish inside. He makes it through the door just before it glides shut; it's a wonder the back of his parka survives.

 Mako is leaning heavily against the note-covered wall, trying to hide her tear-streaked face.

 "Oh, my dear girl," murmurs Hermann, before he's aware he's shaped the words. "What is it?"

 "The Marshall's leaving," she says, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Going to look for Becket."

 "He's the last surviving Mark-3 pilot," Hermann sighs, rummaging in his pockets until he comes up with a napkin from the refectory that's crumpled, but clean, and offers it. "We'll need him."

 "It should be me," she hisses, accepting the makeshift tissue. "Not some impulsive stranger!"

 Hermann shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, reaching up to snag Mako's week-old missive regarding their fluke victory from where it hangs almost exactly above her head. He tilts her chin up once she's finished blowing her nose and hands it to her, managing a taut smile.

 "You ought to keep this as a reminder," he suggests. "You're the best of us, and up to the task." It had been his aim _and_ hers, the two of them being almost evenly matched. Better to let her believe . . .

 Mako laughs and tucks her hair behind her ear, regarding her sharp handwriting with pride.

 "You should go," she tells him. "Forget our secret, make sure Newt's okay this morning."

 "It's his own fault for overindulging again," Hermann sighs, but he hands over the cigarettes and lighter. "Any flask belonging to Officer Choi is bound to contain something stronger than soda."

 "It's nice of Herc not to tell on us," she mutters around a cigarette already perched between her lips as the lift creaks to a halt and the door opens to low-lying mist. "Stacker deserves it," she whispers.

 "It's not our secret, I'll have you know," Hermann replies belatedly. "Save some for Choi."

 "And for you," says Mako, stepping out into the ghost-lit fog. "I promise Sasha has more."

 "I don't doubt it," sighs Hermann, accepting a single drag from the cigarette before stepping back into the lift. "Whatever shall I say to Doctor Geiszler if he's cognizant?"

 "If you don't know," says Mako, waving at him through the smoke, "then you will soon."

 

 

*

 

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

_29.9.25_

 

_Is it true that the Marshall is not finding what he went out for? Condolences to Team Typhoon, who must clean scary appliances after making food for Saturday. We will win at both odds._

 

_SK_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9/29/25 Pity nobody told me about this particular wager, seeing as I know the answer to that question. All bets are off, suckers: Pentecost touches down with live goods in hand on Wednesday at 1800h. Blows to be you right about now, Team Cherno. —TC_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_30th Sept._

 

_Lose money, win at darts? Maybe not so bad for the rest of us if baklava stuff and Cherno on clean-up detail occur. Re: food for this week, anyone have allergies we should know about?_

 

 _煒_ _虎_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_9-30-25_

 

_Hermann: Partial nightshade sensitivity (tomatoes and orange/red/yellow peppers = 100% okay, unfortunately will not make him explode; eggplant, green peppers, potatoes = WILL)_

 

_Yours truly: Mildly lactose intolerant (it's cool, I'll manage whatever's thrown at me)_

 

_NG_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_10-01-25 This is weird. Hi? Is this how I introduce myself? —R. Becket_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_October 1st_

_Isn't that sweet? Can't have Casanova breaking out in a rash, now, can we? (Not much on my end, mate, but seafood is disgusting. Make sure everything's cooked through if not doing sweets?)_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_1/10/25 . . . I can't decide if that's offensive or if Chuck's just more mentally deficient than I had ever imagined. No sensitivities on my end, Hu! Thanks for asking! - mm_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_10-2-25 What, I have to disclose my food allergies via note tacked up in an elevator? Let me guess, this is some kind of joke on the new guy. Thanks for the warm welcome, you weirdos. Tendo, you're so gonna pay for this. Saturday night darts? The game is ON. —Raleigh_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_2 October 2025_

 

_Mr. Becket makes a salient point, Newton. I'll thank you not to air a significant portion of my medical record in public again. Shall we bring your highly inconvenient latex allergy to light, lest Mr. Hansen ever take it upon himself to issue you a challenge using actual rubber gloves?_

 

— _Dr. H. Gottlieb_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_2/10/14_

 

_It's been an honour serving with you lot for the laugh riot alone. Allergies: peanut (me), egg (Max). What Chuck's trying to say is that he might croak if he eats shellfish, so look to it. Our family got the short end of the stick where all that rot's concerned, four-leggers included._

 

 _H.H_ _._

_____________________________________________________________

 

_10/3/25 Re: darts tomorrow, abort mission. You'll have heard already, but just for the sake of the record: DOUBLE EVENT IN PROGRESS. Godspeed, and see you on the other side. —TC_

_____________________________________________________________

 

 

Hermann does not intend to catch up with the Jaeger pilot dashing for the lift ahead of him, not with his feet and his stomach both leaden in the knowledge that Newton has likely been sent to his untimely-by-several-hours end. Much to Hermann's surprise, Raleigh turns to face him once the lift door is open, leaning heavily against it with one shoulder until Hermann has made his way inside.

 They stand side by side in silence as the lift begins to rise, staring at the usually comforting cacophony of missives. Tendo's addition is sobering to read as Raleigh removes it from his pocket and uses stray bits of tape poached from the corners of others' bulletins to hold it in place.

 "You saw this coming, didn't you?" Raleigh asks, underscoring the phrase _DOUBLE EVENT IN PROGRESS_ with his index finger. "Your calculations. Modeling? Anyway, you predicted it."

 "Yes, I did," says Hermann, quietly, staring at his feet, "and I wish to heaven I had not."

 "If you hadn't, we wouldn't have been ready," Raleigh points out, unexpectedly clapping Hermann's upper arm. "Hey, where's Doctor Geiszler? Running last-minute tests for when we make entry?"

 "He's gone out," replies Hermann, glancing at him gravely. "Into the city. Marshall's orders."

 Raleigh's face falls in concern so genuine that Hermann finds himself fighting for composure.

 "Why the hell would he send him alone like that?" he demands. "Send him without _you_?"

 "Expediency, I suspect," says Hermann, resolutely. "One cannot have both members of one's skeleton-crew research team put out of commission in one fell swoop. It stands to reason."

 Raleigh shakes his head, staring at the floor in his turn. "Not like this," he insists. "Not after all you guys have been through together for, what, the past decade? Not when you guys must—"

 "I can see that Newton's long years spent fraternizing with our mutual friend Mister Choi have served you well by way of easily accessible backstory," sighs Hermann, with weary bitterness. "May I prevail upon you to forget what you think you know until such time as we've survived?"

 Raleigh starts to nod slowly as the lift creaks to a stop, lifting his eyes from the floor with a chagrined half-smile. "That's a fair request, Doctor Gottlieb," he says, offering his hand.

 Hermann accepts after a moment's hesitation, shakes firmly—once, _twice_ —up and down.

 

 

*

 

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

_Oh God, we did it. HK Shatterdome: to survivors and those lost, my love._

 

— _Genji_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_I'll tell my daughter your stories. Our stories. How together we survived._

 

_半零_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_can't believe they're gone. rest in peace, my brave ones. you'll be missed._

 

_\- a. m. -_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_SUCK JAEGER SHRAPNEL, MOTHERFUCKING KAIJU SCUM! YEAH!_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_Okay, that's kind of uncharitable, they had no choice in what they were doing, but yeah._

 

_(I told you we'd be rock stars, Hermann. And yes, bathroom run just to scribble this.)_

 

_NG_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_I think I am going to cry because Chuck is not here to write something stupid. - mm_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_My thanks are boundless, мои друзья. You will be missed. _

 

_(I decline to fight you on this point, Newton. Grudgingly.)_

 

— _H. G._

_____________________________________________________________

 

_An honour serving with you all indeed. Easy on the shots up there, crew._

 

_H.H._

_____________________________________________________________

 

_Come back here, sir. You don't get to say that till I say it to you first. —TC_

_____________________________________________________________

 

_For Pentecost. For those who fell in the drift._

 

_(But most of all for Yancy: I was listening.)_

_____________________________________________________________

 

 

Hermann smokes his cigarette at the edge of the helipad alone. He's halfway to genuinely intoxicated and can't be arsed to care; Mako and Raleigh are alive, and, even beneath the heavy pall of loss, LOCCENT has been a maelstrom of improvised celebrations for the better part of two hours. Shakily, nearing exhaustion, Hermann pitches the burnt filter and steps back into the lift.

 He studies these new, impromptu missives covering every last inch of existing paper and wonders if this rag-tag tapestry will be left _in situ_ as a shrine to the departed long after the Shatterdome is decommissioned. Perhaps they'll reopen it as a landmark, give tours, resort to installing plexiglas over these missives to shield them from reverent, prying fingers and righteous censors alike.

 The last thing he expects when the lift creaks to a stop and opens on warm, stale interior air is Newton swaying there framed in the hall, red-faced and tugging at his tie. His blood-spattered collar hangs open now, unbuttoned nearly to his sternum, and he freezes when their eyes lock.

 "Caught you," he manages, wearing a sheepish grin that Hermann is sure ought to be _his_.

 "It's been a stressful forty-eight hours," Hermann snaps, starting out of the lift, but Newton takes one, two, _three_ unsteady steps forward and lets the door glide shut behind them. He hits the button several times, uncoordinated, and fixes Hermann with a candid look as they start to rise.

 "Nah, man, it's cool," he says, shuffling his filthy boots. "I, um. Was going to ask for one."

"Don't start _now_ ," sighs Hermann, defeated, and leans into him. "You hate the stuff. You'll never stop if you get a taste for it; furthermore, you'll constantly be stealing _mine_ —"

 What passes between as their eyes meet again is electric: one plaintive, wordless question.

 "Stealing your cigarettes, huh?" Newton finally asks, sagging closer as the lift stops. He ignores the lift door, now wide open to the damp, rain-lashed morning, and sags closer. "You'd mind?"

 "Not so much if you can exercise moderation," Hermann replies, too far gone on alcohol buzz and nicotine rush to let anything so inconvenient as pride get in the way. "I'd gladly share."

 They're leaning close now, so _very_ close, almost forehead to forehead. The lift door creaks shut and neither one of them breathes, Newton's fingers winding agitated in the tails of his untucked shirt.

 "I don't know if this is the smart way of doing this, but _damn_ if I'm not too tired to say all the shit we both know," Newton mutters. For all of the canny, hopeful possibilities in his tone, he still looks shocked when Hermann lifts his free hand and uses it to gently untangle his tie the rest of the way, slip his fingers between the bloodied folds of fabric at Newton's collarbone to splay and cover the brightly colored swirls, scales, and talons just beneath. He shivers helplessly, and they fold.

 "You dated every single one and removed them in timely fashion," Hermann whispers, twisting his hand till his index finger catches the next button and worries it free. "Not a single infraction."

 Newton is breathing high and fast; his hands have settled at Hermann's waist; he has no idea what to do with them, or, if he _does_ , he's too terrified to actually _do_ it. "Yeah, well," he laughs, voice high and strained, "there's your stuffy sense of departmental pride. I didn't have the heart . . ."

 His eyes slide shut, and he gasps as Hermann finishes off his buttons and molds his hand to Newton's side, his floating ribs, the sweat-damp small of his back. Hermann takes a nerve-addled breath, almost dizzy with what's flaring between them faster and fiercer than life. Newton shivers again, this time _into him_ , and Hermann gasps, "I hope to God you have it now. Newton, I—"

 "Fuck," he whispers, and Hermann comes undone. "Forget the cigarette, Hermann. _Please_."

 It's easy to kiss him, then— _shockingly_ simple to let his cane drop and slip his other hand inside Newton's shirt to fan against warm skin and pull him in flush even as he parts his lips to the coaxing of Hermann's tongue and lets slip an astonished whimper. Hermann eases them into it, deeper by degrees, only dimly aware that the lift's begun to move again. He should be alarmed, but Newton's arms are tight around him and he's digging his fingers into Newton's shoulder blades now and the world seems breathlessly, beautifully small. The door will open on someone, and they . . .

 "Oh," says one of the junior techs whose voice Hermann only vaguely recognizes. " _Sorry_!"

 They break apart just as the young woman turns and flees, mortified, back in the direction of LOCCENT and its debauchery. They're grinning at each other now, still pressed close, and Hermann wants to laugh at the fact that _Newton_ is the one most mortified. Hermann kisses him again, close-mouthed and soft, before Newton makes an apologetic sound and bends for his cane.

 "Let's get out of here," he says, suddenly self-conscious, holding his shirt closed with one hand and offering his other arm to Hermann. "Your room's closer, and it's probably less cluttered, too."

 Hermann can't disagree, and the prospect of further delay, even as ragged as they are, is sheer torture. He drags Newton through the corridors at an unforgiving pace; they stagger once and flatline against the nearest wall, drawn inexorably back into their interrupted kiss. Newton can't keep quiet; each surge of his hips against Hermann's feeds an ache of mounting pleasure so low and urgent Hermann thinks they might shatter. They reach his room staggering, incoherent.

 "I—Newton, forgive me, I do _not_ —have words for how much—" He stops, because Newton's tugging off Hermann's coat and kissing Hermann's neck and trying to get rid of his own shirt all at once. They tip over the edge of the mattress and land in a tangle, Newton shirtless and rucking up Hermann's slipover jumper and, before he knows it, kissing and tugging his buttons undone.

 "Tell me what you want," he gasps, kicking out of his shoes. "Anything to make amends—"

 "Shut up, shut _up_ ," says Newton, and melts back into Hermann as soon as he's able, boots abandoned and jeans loose. "I'm, oh God," he pleads, twitching against him. "Touch me. I'm—"

 Getting Newton the rest of the way out of his clothes is a struggle, as desperate as he is to be held, but Hermann stays him long enough to shed his own pants and trousers on the floor. They curl together without thought, roll under the covers without pausing to stare; Newton lies under him so sweetly as their lips meet, and he cries into Hermann's mouth, high-pitched and perfect, desperately shifting to push taut and demanding flesh against Hermann's hip, his thigh, his belly—harder, _more_.

 "There, _hush_ ," Hermann whispers, control slipping away, and frames Newton's face against the pillow for the briefest of moments with one hand cupping his cheek. Newton turns into the touch, mouthing blindly at the heart of Hermann's palm, steadfast in spite of the chaos around them.

 "Hermann," he manages, his voice catching; their world brightens and contracts. " _I'm_ —"

Newton looks at him like this is all he's ever wanted: Hermann's arms wrapped tight and sure around him while he comes with a broken shout. Hermann finally closes his eyes, follows him, kisses the sound back into Newton's mouth with an unashamed groan that makes them shiver.

 "So I don't know what's worse," says Newton, eventually, his tone thick from the edge of sleep, and Hermann starts awake, kisses his neck, listens. "That it took drifting to get us in gear with this whole relationship thing, or that you found my adherence to elevator note protocol a _turn-on_."

 "Presently, I see no down-side to either circumstance," Hermann yawns, fumbling for the nearest stray article of clothing under the sheets. They're a sticky, _wretched_ mess, and they ought to head straight for the shower, but they're seconds from falling asleep again and Hermann will _not_ let go of Newton for longer than it takes to clean them up. "Not from where I'm lying."

 "You smell like smoke," Newton murmurs while his belly gets a rub-down. "Taste like it, too."

 "Then you shall have to get used to it," Hermann sighs, "and forgive my occasional indulgence."

 Newton pulls him back into bed when he returns from binning the shirt, kisses him open-mouthed and wanting even as he struggles to stay awake. "Think I'm already addicted," he mumbles.

 "Absurd," Hermann murmurs, finding his eyelids too heavy for argument, and wonders whose writing on the wall yet awaits them.

Newton, tucked warm and safe against him, is already asleep.


End file.
